


A Little Like Each Other

by iwantcandy2



Series: Rarepair Requests [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardianswap, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwantcandy2/pseuds/iwantcandy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q: What happens when a meteor mix-up causes Bro to raise a little Rose?</p><p>A: They end up being a little like each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Like Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hattoriSei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hattoriSei/gifts).



> For the prompt: Bro & Rose, what if instead of Bro raising Dave, he instead raised Rose? A mix-up of meteors leads to some interesting results. How would these two affect each other's lives?

Holding his breath in anticipation, Bro opened the door to his apartment as quietly as possible. He never knew what would be waiting for him on the other side. Teenage girls were a handful. Especially the kind that enjoyed setting traps.

He made it into the entry without incident. Good. Three days ago, she had set a wiretrap to unleash a deluge of tentacle-shaped dildos (his product, her idea) on him with a note on My Little Pony stationary that read “Bro: Have you seen enough hentai to know where this is going? –Rose”

Bro sets his bag down on the dining table with a sigh of relief. The kitchen is clear. A week ago, she had placed a tripwire attached to the garbage disposal, which set of a shitload of fireworks. Apparently, it was his turn to do the dishes, and he had forgotten. Again. 

Still no sign of her. It’s been, what, three days since the last incident? That means that if something doesn’t happen today, then he is due for something really spectacular tomorrow.

“Why did I ever want a kid?” he growls out loud. “I should have stuck with a cat.”

No snark floats down the hall. That means that she is either lurking, waiting to pounce, or maybe she’s plugged into her headphones, doing those strange dubstep remixes of classical music she is so fond of. 

He tiptoes, delicate as an elephant on thin ice, to the door of her room. He's tempted to burst the thing open, but Rose has made very clear to knock first. It’s one of her regulations he obeys without complaint. Once she hit eleven, walking in on her undressed edged from ironically funny to creepy even by Bro's standards. 

So he knocks. Once, twice, three times. The agreement is that if she doesn’t respond, he gets to check on her and make sure she hasn’t died.

Tense, he opens the door. She’s not there. Oh, and it looks like she drew a summoning circle on the floor again. Rose has as fine a sense of irony as the BIG MAN himself, but her interests lean more towards hokey New Age bullshit. She bought her first pack of tarot cards when she was six, and she has been predicting the deaths of neighborhood kids ever since. It’s one of those things he privately thinks is hilarious shit, but publicly plays the functioning adult and discourages.

Oh, and what’s this on the floor? One of her voodoo dolls shaped in his likeness. It’s got a little hat and shades and everything. Pinned to it with a throwing star is a note. He leans down and plucks it off. 

It reads:

sis,

roof. now.  
bring cal.

Where doing it man  
Where making this HAPPEN

It’s a recycled note he sent her a few months ago. She’s taken the liberty of editing it, pointing out all the grammatical errors with little red carats. 

Sighing, he grabs his katana and heads to the roof. As he climbs through the hatch, he spies Rose posed dramatically against the sunset. The purple tails of her sash whip behind her, her arms canted at her sides to perfectly silhouette a sai in each hand. Her back is to him, but as he crawls out of the hatch, she whips around.

“At last,” she croons, the purple frames of her reading glasses glinting in the sun, “the time has come to settle this feud once and for all. Let the calligraphy of your fall be written in the sudden strokes of your own blood.”

She falls into a fighting stance, albeit not a good once. She’s going for theatrical, her reach wide and exaggerated and leaving about a million holes in her guard.

Bro hates to encourage bad habits, but, well…

“You think this battle will give you satisfaction?” he bellows, raising his katana above his head in a two-handed hold. “I’m afraid you will be left wanting, young grasshopper. There is nothing here for you but defeat.”

“We shall see.”

They surge towards each other, shrieking like every bad kung-fu movie they’ve stayed up too late watching together. They clash, sending sparks as they ruin a pair of perfectly good blades by blocking with the sharp edges.

Ten years ago, he would have cringed at the thought. But a decade of parenting really puts simple things like swords into perspective. 

Rose backflips out of his reach with a flourish, making a three-point landing with one hand held out to the side.

It’s silly to think things like a shitty blade collection used to matter to him more than actual people. Ah, to be young and dumb again.

He leaps towards Rose, trilling at the top of his voice. She blocks with a sai, tangling his sword in the hilt and flicking it away. 

“At last,” she pants, holding him at knifepoint, “victory is mine.”

He sighs and holds his hands up in surrender.

“All right, what do you want?”

“Stationary that is not covered in cartoon horses.”

“What? Aw, come on, the My Little Pony pads are great.”

“They are designed for girls half my age!” she spits.

“I know! It’s irony.”

“I am sick and tired of being your excuse to buy My Little Pony merchandise,” she whines, demeanor slipping to reveal the teenage girl beneath. “From now on, you buy horse shit for yourself. I want something with skulls on it. Or ravens.”

Bro lets out an extended groan before finally caving.

“I guess that’s feasible,” he concedes.

She smirks, allowing herself a dignified gloat. The two collect their weapons and head downstairs.

“You know,” he points out, “you can always just leave me a note or talk to me or something. We don’t have to go through this whole song and dance every single time.”

“I know,” she replies, “but I think this way is more fun.”

She cuts ahead of him to the shower, and proceeds to use up all the hot water. Later, he showers in the cold, wondering why he ever got a kid. 

Knowing he would never trade her for anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Man I could have spent all day thinking of ways a sassy irony-obsessed Rose would prank Bro.


End file.
